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I never used to pay gravy much respect. When my mom made gravy, I called it "lump casserole." My grandmother's efforts were often referred to (lovingly, of course) as "the big wet blanket." Assuming that my gene pool didn't include much of a gravy bone, I avoided gravy-making for years, arguing that a great turkey doesn't need it. But this year, I finally decided to shake off the family curse. I set out to create a full-bodied gravy that would radiate an intense turkey ness without setting up like concrete.
Before shopping for ingredients or breaking out any pans, I dug into some history books. Once upon a time in Europe, big hunks of critter were usually cooked via boiling. Not wanting to waste a molecule of the cooking water, the cook would season the liquid liberally with spices (gravy comes from an Old French word for spice) and thicken it with ground almonds or bread before ladling it over the beast.
Later, roasting became prevalent in Europe, and gravy simply came to mean meat drippings — otherwise known as jus. It was easy to make, so it's no wonder that gravy came to mean anything gained with little or no effort. Today, we still use the word that way — but not usually in reference to the gravy served at Thanksgiving dinner. That's because modern cooks have added thickeners to the gravy equation, making matters a bit more complicated.
The Science Behind Thickening
Let's take a moment to ponder the mechanics of starch thickening. When exposed to a hot liquid (say, broth), starch granules (say, flour, cornstarch, or tapioca) explode, sending out a tangle of snakelike molecules that create a 3-D mesh. This mesh traps the liquid, thickening it into a kind of gel.
The problem with starch is that you can't just dump it into a hot liquid. If you do, the first grains that hit the liquid immediately swell and glue together, creating gummy orbs that are usually full of dry particles. I don't know exactly what scientists call these orbs, but regular folk call them lumps. Cooks invented the roux and the slurry to get around the lumps.
Roux
This thickening agent is made by melting butter or other fat in a pan and whisking in flour, then cooking said flour until it loses its raw flavor. When the roux is ready, the stock is added. The strategy is to coat every granule of flour with butter. Since the water in stock hates fat, it's as though each starch grain is wearing a buttery wet suit to protect against overzealous gelatinization. As you cook the roux, the fat melts off and the starches, if they've been whisked properly, can go about their thickening business. Cajun and Creole cooks also figured out that you can deepen the flavor of the finished sauce by cooking the roux until it looks like a chocolate-brown mole.
But roux are rife with problems. They have to cook for a while, with frequent stirring, to rid the flour of its raw cereal taste. Roux are imprecise because their thickening power decreases as they cook. Last but not least, a roux's scalding, clingy properties make it rather hazardous to handle. Hence the nickname for the darkest of roux, Cajun Napalm.
Slurry
Another common starch-delivery device is the slurry. Instead of working the starch-containing powder into fat, the starch is suspended in cold liquid and shaken up like a pitcher of Martinis. This so-called slurry is then whisked quickly into the simmering liquid. As the liquid comes back to a simmer, the starch will do its thing — lump-free.
But slurries have their own set of issues. Because you're adding the slurry at the very end of the gravy-making process, the raw taste of the flour won't have time to cook out. Sure, you can use cornstarch to get around that, but cornstarch-thickened sauces tend to be overly shiny — and that makes for downright creepy gravy.
"Schmaltz Manié"
My recipe doesn't avoid starch altogether. Starch is good — starch works. I just have a more reliable and precise version: a modified beurre manié.
A beurre manié is like a roux in that it contains flour and butter, but instead of cooking them together, you simply knead them into a paste off-heat (beurre manié means "kneaded butter" in French). Traditionally, you add this paste by teaspoonfuls to the simmering liquid until the desired viscosity is reached, but I find that rolling the paste into balls helps me control the thickening even more precisely.
Speaking of paste, mine's made from flour and chicken fat (known as schmaltz in Yiddish) instead of butter. Why? To up the birdy flavor of the gravy considerably. Where do I get the chicken fat? Homemade stock.
Stock-making
Stock making is something of a lost art because it requires carcasses, the bones and joints of which are packed with collagen; when cooked with moisture, collagen converts to lip-smacking gelatin. Most of us don't do a lot of butchering these days, so we're carcass poor. Luckily, both chicken and turkey wings are available in abundance. And we can make the stock and schmaltz manié days ahead of time.
Making the Stock
Buy 3 1/4 pounds of chicken wings or turkey wings. They're cheap, easy to find, and packed with connective tissue that can be coaxed into gelatin. Roast the wings and transfer them to a stockpot. Add water, onions, celery, carrots, and a few sprigs of fresh herbs. Bring the mixture to a boil, then let it simmer until reduced by half. Strain the stock and chill it overnight.
Rolling the Schmaltz Manié
The next day, a wondrous thing will be revealed. A rather thick disk of fat will have formed like a lid on top of the stock. This is the schmaltz, and it's packed with poultry flavor. Break it into pieces, then mix in an equal amount of flour to form a smooth paste. Chill the schmaltz manié, then roll it into half-inch balls. Although these little magic bullets can be kept in the refrigerator up to two days before T-Day, I usually bag, tag, and freeze them for convenience.
Deglazing the Turkey Pan
When the turkey comes out of the oven, pour any liquids that have accumulated in the roasting pan into a fat separator. Heat the drained roasting pan over two burners and add white wine. With a little scraping from a wooden spoon, the wine will dissolve the fond (browned bits), which is crucial for gravy flavor development. Deglazing will also make the pan a lot easier to clean later, by the way.
Stir in the degreased pan juices from the separator (tasting as you go if using brined drippings), some chopped herbs, and your stock. Bring to a boil. Ask your sous-chef to pour the remaining turkey fat over your dog's food, and watch him or her chase the bowl across the room.
Thickening the Gravy
Remove the schmaltz manié from the fridge and add to the pan one ball at a time, whisking constantly until the sauce thickens to your liking. Season the gravy with salt (brined bird drippings probably won't need any) and pepper. Pour it into your gravy boat and it's ladles ahoy.
Before shopping for ingredients or breaking out any pans, I dug into some history books. Once upon a time in Europe, big hunks of critter were usually cooked via boiling. Not wanting to waste a molecule of the cooking water, the cook would season the liquid liberally with spices (gravy comes from an Old French word for spice) and thicken it with ground almonds or bread before ladling it over the beast.
Later, roasting became prevalent in Europe, and gravy simply came to mean meat drippings — otherwise known as jus. It was easy to make, so it's no wonder that gravy came to mean anything gained with little or no effort. Today, we still use the word that way — but not usually in reference to the gravy served at Thanksgiving dinner. That's because modern cooks have added thickeners to the gravy equation, making matters a bit more complicated.
The Science Behind Thickening
Let's take a moment to ponder the mechanics of starch thickening. When exposed to a hot liquid (say, broth), starch granules (say, flour, cornstarch, or tapioca) explode, sending out a tangle of snakelike molecules that create a 3-D mesh. This mesh traps the liquid, thickening it into a kind of gel.
The problem with starch is that you can't just dump it into a hot liquid. If you do, the first grains that hit the liquid immediately swell and glue together, creating gummy orbs that are usually full of dry particles. I don't know exactly what scientists call these orbs, but regular folk call them lumps. Cooks invented the roux and the slurry to get around the lumps.
Roux
This thickening agent is made by melting butter or other fat in a pan and whisking in flour, then cooking said flour until it loses its raw flavor. When the roux is ready, the stock is added. The strategy is to coat every granule of flour with butter. Since the water in stock hates fat, it's as though each starch grain is wearing a buttery wet suit to protect against overzealous gelatinization. As you cook the roux, the fat melts off and the starches, if they've been whisked properly, can go about their thickening business. Cajun and Creole cooks also figured out that you can deepen the flavor of the finished sauce by cooking the roux until it looks like a chocolate-brown mole.
But roux are rife with problems. They have to cook for a while, with frequent stirring, to rid the flour of its raw cereal taste. Roux are imprecise because their thickening power decreases as they cook. Last but not least, a roux's scalding, clingy properties make it rather hazardous to handle. Hence the nickname for the darkest of roux, Cajun Napalm.
Slurry
Another common starch-delivery device is the slurry. Instead of working the starch-containing powder into fat, the starch is suspended in cold liquid and shaken up like a pitcher of Martinis. This so-called slurry is then whisked quickly into the simmering liquid. As the liquid comes back to a simmer, the starch will do its thing — lump-free.
But slurries have their own set of issues. Because you're adding the slurry at the very end of the gravy-making process, the raw taste of the flour won't have time to cook out. Sure, you can use cornstarch to get around that, but cornstarch-thickened sauces tend to be overly shiny — and that makes for downright creepy gravy.
"Schmaltz Manié"
My recipe doesn't avoid starch altogether. Starch is good — starch works. I just have a more reliable and precise version: a modified beurre manié.
A beurre manié is like a roux in that it contains flour and butter, but instead of cooking them together, you simply knead them into a paste off-heat (beurre manié means "kneaded butter" in French). Traditionally, you add this paste by teaspoonfuls to the simmering liquid until the desired viscosity is reached, but I find that rolling the paste into balls helps me control the thickening even more precisely.
Speaking of paste, mine's made from flour and chicken fat (known as schmaltz in Yiddish) instead of butter. Why? To up the birdy flavor of the gravy considerably. Where do I get the chicken fat? Homemade stock.
Stock-making
Stock making is something of a lost art because it requires carcasses, the bones and joints of which are packed with collagen; when cooked with moisture, collagen converts to lip-smacking gelatin. Most of us don't do a lot of butchering these days, so we're carcass poor. Luckily, both chicken and turkey wings are available in abundance. And we can make the stock and schmaltz manié days ahead of time.
Making the Stock
Buy 3 1/4 pounds of chicken wings or turkey wings. They're cheap, easy to find, and packed with connective tissue that can be coaxed into gelatin. Roast the wings and transfer them to a stockpot. Add water, onions, celery, carrots, and a few sprigs of fresh herbs. Bring the mixture to a boil, then let it simmer until reduced by half. Strain the stock and chill it overnight.
Rolling the Schmaltz Manié
The next day, a wondrous thing will be revealed. A rather thick disk of fat will have formed like a lid on top of the stock. This is the schmaltz, and it's packed with poultry flavor. Break it into pieces, then mix in an equal amount of flour to form a smooth paste. Chill the schmaltz manié, then roll it into half-inch balls. Although these little magic bullets can be kept in the refrigerator up to two days before T-Day, I usually bag, tag, and freeze them for convenience.
Deglazing the Turkey Pan
When the turkey comes out of the oven, pour any liquids that have accumulated in the roasting pan into a fat separator. Heat the drained roasting pan over two burners and add white wine. With a little scraping from a wooden spoon, the wine will dissolve the fond (browned bits), which is crucial for gravy flavor development. Deglazing will also make the pan a lot easier to clean later, by the way.
Stir in the degreased pan juices from the separator (tasting as you go if using brined drippings), some chopped herbs, and your stock. Bring to a boil. Ask your sous-chef to pour the remaining turkey fat over your dog's food, and watch him or her chase the bowl across the room.
Thickening the Gravy
Remove the schmaltz manié from the fridge and add to the pan one ball at a time, whisking constantly until the sauce thickens to your liking. Season the gravy with salt (brined bird drippings probably won't need any) and pepper. Pour it into your gravy boat and it's ladles ahoy.